


Paper Cranes

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [1]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Choking, Episode Related, Episode: s01e10 Chapter 10, Episode: s01e11 Chapter 11, F/M, Fight Sex, Making Up, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Whoever folds a thousand paper cranes will get their deepest wish.Claire's wishes are never so easily granted.





	1. Chapter 1

The bulb illuminating the refrigerator flickered, warning her she’d been standing here too long. The motor started up a whole minute ago, but she closed her eyes, ignoring the perishables warming in room temperature exposure. 

The cool, soothing air rushed across her cheeks, battling off the wave of heat rolling torturously from head-to-toe. 

_ Just one more minute.  _

Her eyes jarred open as the sound of rapid weapon’s fire and yelling characters from one of Francis’ video games starting up. Was the volume higher than usual, or her tolerance lower? She couldn’t tell. 

Claire shut the fridge resolutely, breathing out a low sigh. 

Fuck him. And fuck menopause. 

Both of them were making her question her reality - her sanity. And after what she’d done to the Watershed Bill, she was questioning her own decision making. On the surface, she knew she’d done the right thing for herself. Not going to Remy meant never getting the filters out of Sudan, and laying half the funds they’d raised at the gala to replace Sancorp’s money worthless. 

But she hated it when they fought, and hated it even more that it was her fault. Hated it that he’d made it her fault. Hated that she was struggling to reach her goals while his were gaining momentum and strength. 

When she closed her eyes, his words echoed through her head. 

_ The CWI is important, yes. But not nearly close to what we’re trying to accomplish here.  _

Maybe she hated it more that he was right. 

Leaving the fridge, she walked to the window sill and took one of the cigarettes from the box. As she lit up, she pulled her knees up to her chest, and planted her feet into the corner of the sill where he would usually be sitting. 

It didn’t feel right without him, but she needed the nicotine more than she needed her pride. 

She took long, slow drags of the cigarette, watching the tip dwindle away as her mind traveled back along the choices that had brought them to this point. 

Everything had gone according to plan until the Secretary of State nomination. The Presidency was a much more prestigious, ambitious goal, but in light of all that the last six months had held, she almost wished Walker had followed through on his promise instead. It was the risks that had driven them apart, the alluring thought of power. 

Claire tilted her head back against the sill, breathing out a billow of smoke. 

And Zoe. 

They’d each had a number of affairs, but they’d always been discreet. She didn’t care that he was fucking a young, pretty thing, only that he was being reckless about it. He’d claimed that she’d put all their hard work in jeopardy, but from where she was sitting, he’d slid the knife between his own shoulder blades when he allowed Zoe to claim so much power over him. 

_ Men and their cocks. They can’t be trusted.  _

Claire finished off the cigarette, and stubbed the rest of it out in the glass dish. 

Closing the window, she rose from the sill, and went about turning off all the lights in the kitchen and living room. She ascended the stairs in the darkness, and found her way to the bedroom with an outstretched hand. 

After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she changed into a silk nightgown, and slid between the freshly laundered sheets of their bed. Sliding down against the pillow, she dragged the sheets around her chin, and pressed her eyes shut. 

She was looking for the blissful haven of sleep, but all she saw behind her closed eyelids was his enraged expression, condemning her for her choices. 

She tossed and turned for an hour before the sound of the door creaking open paralyzed her. She laid still, keeping her breathing even as she listened to his footfalls, and the rustle of clothing as he changed. 

Her breath hitched when the other side of the bed dipped with his weight. 

“Claire?” His voice slipped through the darkness, low and soft. 

She pressed her eyes shut, praying he would buy her charade. After their argument in her office earlier today, she didn’t want to discuss it any further with him - or anything else he wanted to say for that matter. 

“I know you’re awake.” 

Letting out a breath, she rolled over to peer at him through the shadows. 

“Maybe you should sleep in the guest bedroom tonight.” She whispered. 

“Or maybe you should.” 

“You can’t make me feel guilty for looking after myself, and my interests.” 

“We’ve been over this, Claire-”

“But I don’t think you’re hearing me.” She said, her frustration quick to rise. 

“I hear you perfectly. That doesn’t make it a sound decision.” 

“For you.” 

“For us.” 

She scoffed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. 

“Whatever happened to doing things together, no matter what?” Francis asked, disbelief threading through his voice. 

“You’re asking me?” She replied, coolly. 

“Damnit, Claire, I didn’t force you to not take the money from Sancorp. I thought we made that decision together.” 

“It wasn’t really a choice, Francis.” She said, sitting upright in the bed to face him. “You have to realize that.” 

“It could have hurt us. It still can, now that you’ve accepted Remy’s help again.” 

“And if I asked you to break things off with the reporter, would you?” 

His expression shifted from shock to anger. It was late, and she was tired. But maybe she wanted a fight. Maybe she wanted him to scream at her, to pin her down, to show he still cared enough to exert the effort. 

“I told you from the beginning I would.” He said, “And you didn’t ask me to.” 

“It was harmless then.” 

“I still have control of this situation. Or do you not believe that anymore?” 

She glanced away, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. 

“Claire?” He demanded, leaning forward in an attempt to catch her gaze. 

“Do whatever it is you think you have to.” She whispered, “And I’ll do the same.” 

Sinking back down against the pillow, she rolled over to put her back to him. 

Shut him out from her mind, her heart, and he would react. That much she was still certain of. 

“Claire.” He said, irritation coloring his tone. 

She clutched the pillow against her cheek, ignoring the harried sweep of his gaze down the back of her neck. 

“Claire?” He repeated, his voice growing brusque around her name. 

She pressed her eyes shut, waiting for it. 

Her anticipation didn’t stall the gasp that lurched to the back of her throat when his hand closed around her shoulder, forcing her to roll over. Her eyes flew open to find him above her, his eyes dark with anger, his jaw clenched, shaking. 

“What we’re doing requires absolute trust.” He whispered, his voice like a lethal blade in the darkness. “I don’t know what to do if I can’t trust you. Or if you don’t trust me anymore.” 

She lifted her chin, exuding a glacial expression. 

“Do you?” He pressed, “Not trust me anymore?” 

“The situation with Sancorp wasn’t a matter of trust; it was a matter of-”

“Of course it was a matter of trust, Claire; a matter of you breaking mine.”

“All right, I stabbed you in the back.” She retorted, pushing up against his hand on her shoulder, “I admit it! And I’m not sorry!”

His expression shifted, and for a moment she thought he might hit her. Flinched as though he’d actually raised his hand. 

His mouth curled in disgust as he leaned back on his heels, releasing her shoulder. 

“Christ, Claire. I’m not going to hurt you. After all these years, I thought you knew that.”

“But you have no problem punishing me every other way you see fit.” 

“And you I.” He replied past gritted teeth. 

They sat in tense silence for a minute before Claire sat up against the headboard. 

“Now what?” 

“Now I try to fix this.” Francis said, “We’ve accelerated the timeline by two months, but I have a plan.” 

“No, I mean between us.” 

His gaze swung to meet hers. She could see the intuition in his eyes that they had reached a fork in the road - one path led to the destruction, the other to redemption. But they had never seen things in only black and white. 

“I won’t be sorry for accepting Remy’s help, or for gutting the Watershed Act. I can’t be.” 

“Then what are you proposing?” 

Throwing back the sheets, Claire rose to her knees, and grasped the edge of the nightgown. She saw his expression shift from frustration to bewilderment just before she  dragged the nightgown off over her head. The silk slid from her shoulders with ease, collapsing in a glossy pool at her knees. 

“I saw that look in your eyes just now.” She said, her voice husky and muted,  “I know what it means.” 

“Claire,what-”

“You can’t reverse the votes on the Watershed Act. But maybe you won’t care after you get your pound of flesh; isn’t that always what you want?” 

There was a beat of strained silence before Francis spoke in a low tone of disbelief, “Have you lost your mind?” 

“My mind is perfectly clear.” 

She laid back against the pillow, uncurling her legs in a languid, inviting stretch. Positioning her hands submissively above her head, she pressed a silent ultimatum into her gaze. 

He rose from the bed, and paced away, his hands poised tersely at his hips. 

It surprised her that he was even considering her proposition. Six months ago, he would have brushed aside the melodrama of this exchange, and left the room. But that was then, and this was now. Six months ago she hadn’t betrayed him; hadn’t even considered it. Just like he had never considered touching her violently. 

Her breath hitched as he turned to face her. Only the sparse rays of moonlight coming through the bedroom window illuminated the brewing passion, and the lurking threat in his gaze. 

Her heart pounded, the heightened pulse of fear only a breath away from that of exhilaration. She stepped along that thin line, searching for some part of herself she could cut out and offer him; some weak, dreadful thing that didn’t belong in this new world colored with betrayal and self-preservation. 

He rounded the end of the bed at methodical pace, one hand drifting along the bed sheets until he reached her outstretched ankle. His thumb brushed along the ridge of bone, igniting a shiver up her leg, into her core. The space between her hips fluxed with the molten heat and pangs of desire his smallest touch inspired. She shifted her ankle farther into his grasp, an olive branch reaching through the inky darkness. 

His grip clamped around her ankle, and dragged her abruptly around to face him. A gasp caught in the back of her throat as he nudged her back against the sheets, and lifted her foot up against his chest. Her toes caught at the collar of his white t-shirt when he left it there to unlace the drawstring of his pajama trousers. 

She pursed her lips tight as the thudding of her heart pushed her breaths shallow and raspy to the tip of her tongue. Her body itched and ached for the encounter to move faster, but his every move was planned, resolute. 

She could only watch in muffled silence as the silk fabric, the color of wine, slid from his hips. He was getting hard, but that too was methodical. 

He reached up to grasp her foot, and lifted it to graze a kiss along the inner curve. As his mouth met her ankle, he murmured, almost inaudibly, “Take off your panties, and roll over.” 

He let the command sink in, filling the ensuing silence with the stalking hiss of need. She drew in a wavering breath, and tilted her chin up in response. His gaze held onto hers for a few moments longer, ensuring her submission before he released her foot. 

She slowly retracted her legs against her chest. Wiggling the panties from under her hips, she dragged the last bit of fabric standing between him and her vulnerability up her thighs and calves. When they reached her ankles, he snatched them, offering the first sign of impatience. 

All she could hear was the drumming of her heart, and each fragile, shaking breath rasping from her lungs as she rolled onto her stomach. Her legs dangled over the edge of the bed, and she dug her toes into the carpet to keep herself arched over the mattress.

He shifted closer, tapping her leg with one foot in a silent order to spread. 

She accommodated without argument. Her eyes slid shut, and she struggled to breath steadily as he settled between her legs. 

A stretch of silence seemed to last an intolerable eternity before his thumb grazed the curve of her spine. Slowly, it tracked the way up each dip and bump until it reached the nape of her hair. His fingers joined his thumb, delving into her hair and closing in a taut fist. Her scalp strained against the pull, tiny needles of pain shooting over her head and down into her chest as he pressed her face into the sheets.

She squirmed as the position blinded her, leaving her helpless except for sensation and sound. Her heart pounded out a dull bass in her ears, drowning out all else. She couldn’t help but whine as his fingertips grazed the curve of one ass cheek, spilling tingles and licking desire through her body. 

His hand retreated again, torturing her with the next stretch of silence for what seemed an eternity. She could imagine him counting out the seconds, and smiling grimly at her distress. She was nothing more than a tiny mouse caught in a trap; and he was the cat - batting at his catch before he devoured her whole. 

The silence shattered.  

Her cry was effectively muffled in the dense security of the mattress when his hand struck - quick, hard, sudden. 

_ Crack!  _

A clean, cutting blow across her backside sent fissions of sharp pain and hot, unexpected pleasure through her whole body. A cold ripple of horror chased after the heat, as she absorbed the action in gasping, struggling panic. 

She struggled to lift her face, but he pressed it harder into the sheets. Bending over her, he breathed a fiery exhale against the back of her ear. 

“Is that what you were searching for?” He whispered. 

She groaned a response, her nails clawing for purchase across the sheets. 

She jarred as the second blow came, his palm effective, unerring. 

It wasn’t the pain that made her twist against his hold, but the humiliation, and the staggering amount of desire that flooded her. She hadn’t asked for pleasure. She didn’t want orgasm, or even satisfaction; she wanted the pain of his disappointment and anger to absolve her of her wrongdoing. 

But God, he knew how to play her. 

With a severe crack, the third blow landed over the other two, igniting heat and needling pain across her skin. She clawed at his fist wrapped around her hair, but he gave no heed to her nails digging into his flesh, only measured out the fourth strike with even harder force. 

She groaned his name into the mattress, earning herself a moment’s reprieve. 

“You said you wanted punishment. Well, here it is.” 

There was no mercy in his tone, no pity. Just as she asked. She could taste the irony. 

His palm met her skin, doling out a severe blow that rippled through her body like a tidal wave. The sting came first, then the burn, finally the heavy yet weightless drop of pleasure between her legs. 

She bucked beneath the strike, pushing a guttural groan of protest into the mouthful of bed sheets. The objection earned her a tug on the hair wrapped around his fingers, and the decisive swing of hand, accelerated and sharp. 

They came one after the next, a rhythmic exchange of skin cracking against skin, her muffled moans, and his low, exerted grunts. Stinging pain layered on top of the flush and burn spreading across her skin, mounting and mounting to a nearly unbearable peak. She jerked and cried through each one, but just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, just when she expected him to stop, he pushed on harder, faster. 

Finally, she bucked against him just hard enough to free face from the sheets, and twist her hips away from the relentless crack of his palm. 

“Okay, okay, Francis!” She cried, waving her hands in defeat. “You’ve made your point; I’ve had enough!”

He released her hair, and leaned back, panting in heavy bursts. 

She fell back against the sheets, batting her bangs from her eyes. Her body throbbed and burned, no more than she could take; it was the tightening in her groin, the pulse of need originating from deep inside her that turned her delirious, yet determined to act. 

“Well, I hope you enjoyed it.” He said, frustration and detestation sharpening his tone. 

She let out a coarse laugh. “Is that to say you didn’t?” 

They glared at each other for a moment of deadlocked obstinance before she let out impatient sigh. 

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” 

His jaw twitched with an angered clench, but she saw the flicker of desire in his gaze. He couldn’t hide it from her; he couldn’t hide anything. And neither could she. She didn’t know why she bothered pretending the spanking served the one purpose of punishment. 

He marched back to the edge of the bed, fumbling at his boxers. She stretched her legs open as he wrangled them from his ankles, and threw them to the floor with her nightgown. Bending over her, he took her by the wrists, and angled his hips against her own. She could feel the blunt, swollen head of his cock pressing against her, threatening to split her open. 

He cocked his head, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. 

“You’re wet.” 

She pursed her lips in favor of some hasty response that wouldn’t be nearly as cutting. 

He urged against her, sliding in at a slow, aching pace. She could feel every inch, every second of the pressure building toward fullness. 

She pinned her gaze to the ceiling, avoiding the look of satisfaction in his eyes as her mouth stretched open in a strangled moan. 

Their hips locked together, bodies fused at the deepest point. She wiggled beneath him, gasping softly as he ground against her, searing pleasure and a hint of pain into her core. 

Bowing his mouth to her neck, her grunted his pleasure into her skin. She tilted her chin up, offering the tender skin below her jaw, hoping he would take it as what it was  - an invitation to throw care and courtesy out the window, and be as harsh with her as he wanted. 

His hands slid down her wrists to the insides of her forearms, thumbs stroking over her inner elbows. She bit back a shaky breath at the slow pace of his burning kisses down her neck, to the hollow between her collarbones. 

“Francis …” 

His mouth journeyed down the middle of her chest, and over to sample one pert, rosy nipple.  He hummed a response that vibrated into her skin and bone. 

“Come on.” She murmured, “Just do it.” 

“I’m enjoying this.”

Before she could respond, his hips rocked against her, carving out three, deep, aching thrusts before going stagnant again. She tried to lift her arms, but he pinned them back down a nearly bone-crushing squeeze. Her back arched, serving only to offer her heaving breasts more easily for his consumption. He suckled hard along the outer swell, sending a sharp thread of pain into her skin that would no doubt leave mark. She could already imagine the blooming purple bruise that would make certain she wouldn’t soon forget this evening. 

She wiggled beneath him, searching for some angle, if only the tiniest friction, to spark action. 

“Please …” She whispered. 

Begging. It was the only card she had left, one that she hated to play. It amounted to the same thing as apologizing. He didn’t care for it, or respect it. 

She opened her eyes to see that he had propped himself up above her, his gaze deciphering her own. 

“You’re begging?” 

“Asking.” She said. 

There was little difference now. But maybe just enough. 

She twisted her wrist free of his hand, and guided it instead to her throat. 

A frown curled his brow, but he didn’t resist. His fingers tightened around her throat, a slowly winding snake drawing in it’s prey. 

“Fuck me, Francis.” She whispered, urging her hips against his. “Don’t be gentle.” 

He rocked against her, offering a tepid pace in lieu of what she really wanted. 

“Come on.” She groaned, tilting her head back to offer her throat. “You can do better than that.” 

He grasped her thigh, dragging it up against his side as he shifted into a faster pace. She threw her other leg around his waist, digging her heel into his lower back to ensure he wouldn’t withdraw without a fight. 

A groan pressed against the squeeze of his fist as their bodies smacked together in growing rhythm of desperation and tangled emotion. She grabbed onto the sheets with both hands, anchoring herself against the swift, powerful blows.  Each thrust jarred her, rattling the impact and the pleasure all the way through her, down to the bone. 

“Yes, yes …” She panted, hoarsely. 

Her voice twisted into a lengthened, high-pitched moan of pleasure as rutted against her. He was taking her apart, but still, she cried for more. The bedframe protested, and her body ached inside and out, taking blow after blow. Still, it was not enough. 

“Yes, Francis …” She choked out, her voice strangled and small under the grip of his fist. 

She dared to open her eyes, and look up into his. 

He bent over her, his eyes dark and wild - recognizable, but not within the walls of their bedroom. This unshackled beast was one of unerring power, of strength that could crush someone in a single blow. It was reserved for enemies, for Congress, for backdoor deals, and lethal threats. It was for them. Not her. 

Claire slammed her eyes shut as the high, dancing flames of her desire cooled to dying embers. She took the final blows with gritted back tears, each impact reminding her that she had led them willingly to this position. 

At last, after what felt like an age, his steady, hammering thrusts broke off into a stuttered spasm of release. His hand slid away from her throat as he bent over her, spilling slick heat into her raw, aching body. The hoarse, raspy gasps of pleasure sharpened in her ear, and it was all she could hear except for the guilt gaining volume in the back of her mind. 

He pulled out, leaving her chafed and dripping. Void, aching. 

Collapsing to the bed beside her, he dragged the hem of his shirt up to wipe sweat from his brow. With his other hand, he reached out to touch her thigh. 

She sat up abruptly as a wave of dizzy nausea swept over her. 

“Claire?” 

His voice was a distant hum in the back of her mind as she pushed herself off the edge of the mattress and stumbled toward the bathroom. 

“Claire?” 

She rushed into the cool confines of the bathroom, and slammed the door shut behind her before he could follow her. 

Leaning against the door, she gasped a few deep, aching sobs before locking her jaw. She sucked in the next few breaths through her nostrils, forcing the panic down, forcing herself to breathe. Just breathe. 

“Claire?” His voice drifted through the solid, wood slab between them. 

She closed her eyes, carefully wiping the errant tears from her cheeks. Reaching down, she pressed the lock into place. 

“Claire, open the door.” 

She jarred when he slammed his fist into the door. The threat rattled through the wood and into the back of her skull, but she didn’t respond. 

“Claire, are you all right?” 

She slid to the cool tile as the door handle twisted and rattled. 

“Answer me. Claire?” 

She could still feel his release sliding from her, and she wished the pangs of desire would go with it. She wished she could forget - if only for a moment - the parts of her identity so immutably tangled up in his. The bits of herself she’d given away, and the parts she would never get back. 

He stood on the other side for what seemed like hours - first demanding, and threatening, then wheedling and negotiating. When silence finally came, she opened her eyes. 

Maybe she wouldn’t get that part of her identity back, but she could pretend - at least for a little while - that she was someone else. 

 

~

 

Francis wasn’t in the bedroom when Claire emerged from the bathroom. 

She could hear movement downstairs, and imagined he would be up quite late working. He didn’t sleep when he was angry. She doubted she would either, but she was happy to have the bedroom to herself, even if it was simply to stare at the ceiling, doubting her choices. 

She took a shower, put on a fresh nightgown, and went back to bed. She expected these freshly blazed memories to torture her until dawn, but she discovered her exhaustion nearly as soon as she slid between the sheets. Weary, emptied of all the emotion she could give, she closed her eyes and fell into a restless sleep. 

When she woke to her alarm the next morning, she kept her eyes shut as long as possible. She expected to feel his hand on her back, at least the weight of his gaze. But when she rolled over and peeked from beneath her eyelashes, the other side of the bed was empty. 

Half-relief, half-disappointment filtered through her chest. 

Rising from the bed, she put on her robe, and went down to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. 

He was standing at the island, slicing an apple in forceful strokes. He was dressed for the day, looking no less exhausted or stressed than usual. The facade was flawless. 

“Did you sleep well?” 

“Fine.” She murmured, as she stepped around him to the coffee maker. 

“I took the guest bedroom, like you suggested.” 

She nodded. 

Slicing the last piece of apple, he set the knife aside, and turned to pin her with a intuitive gaze. 

“I may be home late tonight. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” 

“Do you have a meeting tonight?” She asked, casting him cool gaze. 

“Nothing planned.” 

“Hm.” 

She could feel his stare skewering her through the back of the head, but she didn’t give him the pleasure of a response. 

Clearing his throat, he grabbed the plate of sliced apple from the counter, and took it to the kitchen table. He sat down with the newspaper, and snapped it open in front of him. They didn’t exchange another word until he had finished breakfast and bid her farewell. 

 

~

 

She didn’t make the choice consciously to visit Zoe. Nor to leave directly for Union Station after the brief, yet informative meeting. She didn’t even pack a bag, but as she climbed aboard the train bound for New York, she felt no sense of guilt at being ill-prepared. She had the money and credit cards in her wallet, which would be plenty for however long she chose to stay. 

Besides, her belongings would bring her little comfort. They were attached to an identity she longed to ignore, if only for a moment. She wasn’t running away; just escaping for a week or two before the brewing storm of six months worth of bad decisions brought she and Francis to an explosive collision. 


	2. Chapter 2

_ They found Peter Russo in his garage this morning with the engine still running.  _

The words burned into Claire’s mind, first with blatant horror, and then, as she read them half a dozen times more, diluted, sinking acceptance. 

This tiny slice of heaven, this escape, with Adam was superficial. It meant nothing. Her real life was back in Washington, in the walls of their townhouse, among the secrets their bedroom kept, and the ones that slipped through the halls of the White House. She’d been treading water for the last week, wasting energy and time. 

In this world, timing was everything. And it was time. 

Time to go home. 

Sentiment was for the weak, and sadness for the disillusioned. She refused to be either, but as she folded the section of photograph into the shape of a crane, she pursed her lips against the lump in the back of her throat. Tears stung for barely a second before she blinked them away. 

Gathering her things, she walked out the door with only the slightest glance backwards. She forced the tremble from her fingers as she replied to Francis’ text. 

_ Coming home.  _

The train ride back to D.C. passed in a heartbeat. She gazed out the window, letting her mind wander. 

Adam. 

He’d meant something to her, but not enough. Still, she mourned the loss of such an appealing diversion, an alternate reality that was far too easy to get lost in. Her saw her in ways Francis didn’t, but the opposite was also true. Beneath the wounds they’d dealt, she knew how she wanted to be seen, how she wanted to be loved. 

And Francis. 

He wouldn’t punish her for running away. He wouldn’t shame her for wanting something he would never be capable of giving her. She knew as soon as she walked back through the door, he would welcome her with open arms. 

Claire rested her head against the window of the train, concentrating on the cool temperature of the glass and the powerful rattle of the carriage over the tracks. She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the call for her stop. 

She caught a taxi from Union Station back to the house. As the car turned onto their lane, she saw the herd of news reporters curious about Peter’s death  already beginning to flock at the end of the street. She ducked her head as they drove past, and rushed out of the taxi to avoid being seen by the press. 

The house was still and quiet, vacant of the shouting and sobbing and desperate emotion she had left behind. After a week away, this space held only distant echoes that rippled through her mind in faded strokes. A deep breath and they were gone again, tucked away in the back of her mind where she stored all the dark and fragile things which could break her. 

He was waiting patiently for her on the sofa. His gaze shifted from meditative to bright as she slipped inside, and the eased the door shut behind her. 

She hesitated by the door for a moment, taking in the sight of him. After twenty-six years of near constant companionship, a week away stretched on like an eternity. 

As he rose to greet her, she rushed across the room to his proffered embrace.

Burying her face in his neck, she breathed deep the familiar scent of aftershave. His arms circled her waist, and dragged her into a tight, unrelenting grip. She heard him sigh, slow and measured against her neck, the sound of a great weight being lifted. 

She leaned back to meet his gaze, and slid her hand to his cheek. He smiled, gentle and reassuring.

“How long have you been sitting there for?” She whispered. 

“Since I got the text.” 

“I’m sorry I took so long.” 

“Don’t apologize. You’re here now.” 

She ducked her head, petrified he would see the doubts and weakness still lurking behind her eyes. He needed her strength now more than ever. Every day onward would be an uphill battle. 

“Claire.” He murmured, tucking his fingers under her chin. 

She slowly lifted her eyes, managing a reserved gaze. 

“I need you beside me when I make the statement.” He said, “A unified front is important. You helped him with the Watershed Act; they’ll want to hear from you too.” 

“I know.” 

“I’ve already had a statement prepared.”

“Do we have to do it now?” 

He glanced at the shuttered window, where the crowd of reporters waited just beyond. Squeezing her arms, he said, “No, they can wait.” 

“I haven’t had a chance to shower this morning.” 

He his thumb plotted a familiar course along her cheek and jaw. 

“Go on, then.” He murmured. 

He let her go, if not reluctantly. As she climbed the stairs, she thought about stopping. Inviting him to come with her. She felt no shame in trading one man for another in less than a day - he was her husband after all. Only shame that she should need these gratuitous, fleetings moments of rapture that served no purpose other than self-indulgence. She didn’t want to  _ need  _ him, didn’t want to depend on him. She wanted his partnership, and devotion. He expected the same, if not more, out of her. 

She locked herself in the bathroom, and slid out of her clothes. Turning the water on hot, she turned her face up to the pounding water and prayed it wash the disjointed, messy remnants of this last week’s mistakes away. 

 

~

 

They made the statement together. When she watched it later on her laptop, she was touched by their conjured sincerity. The world would never know what truly happened to Peter; they wouldn’t know to look any farther than she and Francis’ mournful gazes. 

That evening, as she stood in front of the mirror, taking off her jewelry, and Francis lounged in the bed with folders and papers arranged around his lap, she caught him staring. 

“What?” She murmured, ducking her gaze away from the mirror as she unclasped an earring. 

“Nothing. Am I not allowed to admire my wife?” 

She twisted the other earring free, and set them both on the vanity. Turning from the mirror, she pressed him with a curious gaze. 

“Romanticism doesn’t suit you, Francis.” 

He cast her a sheepish smile, and closed the book he’d been consulting. 

“Actually, I found one of your little paper cranes in the trash the other night.” He said, “I was looking at you just  now, and thinking …”

“It was just a diversion.” Claire said, “A silly one, at best. You know, Peter’s children knew how to make them; it’s simple enough for a child to understand.” 

“Mmm.” He grunted at her casual mention of Peter.

“You know the story, I’m sure. Whoever folds a thousand paper cranes will have their deepest wish granted.” 

“Is that what you were doing?” 

“I’m sure it’s what those children will be doing now that their father is dead. Wishing him back to life …” 

Francis swiped his reading glasses from his face, and tossed them aside with a heavy sigh. 

“It’s tragic.” Claire added, lowering her chin. “But necessary.” 

Their gazes met slowly, and she could see the relief in his eyes. 

“I threw my creations away because there’s no point in wishing for what you can’t have.” She continued, “Trying to be a version of yourself that doesn’t have any foundation in reality.”

Setting his work aside, Francis tossed back the covers, and rose from the bed. 

Claire turned back to the mirror, watching him approach her in the reflection. He slid up behind her, his hands framing her hips in a capable grasp. 

“Don’t be sorry to see them go.” She murmured, casting him a steely gaze through the mirror. 

“I’m not.” He whispered against her neck. 

“Then, what?” 

“You know I want to see you happy, satisfied.” 

“Of course.” 

“Was it hard to give him up?” 

Claire tilted her head, allowing his slow kisses to wind up the edge of her pulse and into the dip below her jaw. The meandering drag of his lips seared smoldering pleasure into her skin, leaving her body awakening, restless. A still lake brought to life by a single drop and ripple. 

“Hard? No ….”

“That’s a lie.” He said, his tone hardening around the condemnation. 

Her breath caught in the back of her throat as his thumb and forefinger snagged the zipper of her skirt. It opened under the deliberate tug of his fingers, the tiny teeth groaning against one another in the charged silence of the bedroom. 

He peered over her shoulder, and their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror. The glass captured her stoic expression, but also the quiver of her mouth as his hand slid beneath the taut fabric of the skirt. 

“Francis …” 

He turned his face back into her neck, branding his kisses behind her ear and into her nape. Tingles washed down her spine, cinching new sprigs of heat deep in her belly. She closed her eyes, resisting the pressure of his fingers delving over her hipbone and against the waistband of her panties. Her muted whimper encouraged the deliberate path of his hand, and her legs all but melted apart in accommodation. His fingers slid over the thin lace of her panties, reaching down to cup her - first softly, then harder as she twisted in his embrace. 

“You ran off to be with him without telling me.” 

Francis’ voice sliced through the rising cloud of desire muddling her brain. Her eyes blinked open, meeting his cutting gaze in the mirror. She breathed in shakily, searching for an explanation.

“I don’t care who you sleep with. As long as I know you’re safe, and exactly where you want to be.” 

“I know.” She whispered, her hand to clutch her mouth.

His hand retreated from between her legs, only to gather the waist of her skirt in his fist. She wavered on her own two feet as he dragged the clinging garment away from her hips, allowing it to fall in a pool around her ankles. 

His fingertips grazed her naked thighs and hips before coming to rest around her waist, just beneath the hem of her shirt. 

“I’m not angry.” He said, easing the drum of her heart, the clutch of her throat. 

She pursed her lips as he reached up to dash the stray tear from the corner of her eye with his knuckle. 

“Tonight isn’t for tears. It’s to remind you that what happened the last time we were together isn’t going to happen again.” 

“That was my fault.” She whispered. “I should be making this speech.” 

“I don’t care about pointing fingers, or who started it. I was the one who acted.” 

“I know, but-”

“Claire.” He said, firmly, giving her waist a squeeze. “It was unacceptable; can we agree together to move on?” 

Their eyes connected in the mirror. His were urgent, hopeful; hers melancholy yet fond. 

She dipped her chin. 

“And the money from Remy?”

“You did what you had to do.” 

She nodded again, swallowing back the lump that had risen in the back of her throat. 

The gathering tension between her shoulders loosened as his hands scaled her ribs and claimed her breasts. The thin lace of her bra burned into her nipples under the duress of his thumbs, wringing a low whimper from the back of her throat. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her shirt, and pushed it back from her shoulders to reveal the erotic stroke of his hands. 

Closing her eyes, she dragged her teeth hard across her lower lip. The bliss and agony of his touch blazed a swift, aching path through her belly and into her core. She could feel the slick heat gathering against the delicate lace panties, leaving the fabric clinging suffocatingly to her quaking body. 

Despite the dull roar of need in the back of her mind, she stood perfectly still in his embrace. He kissed her neck and shoulders, easing the collar of her shirt away inch-by-inch and laying his mouth in it’s place. As the shirt slipped down her arms, he caught the strap of her bra between his teeth and dragged it down. The flimsy garment fell loose, and he nudged the lace away to ply his thumbs across naked skin. Her nipples turned harder to the exposure and the graze of his thumbs, both dusky and swollen with his generous ministrations. 

She clenched her jaw against a bubbling objection, and swung her gaze away from the blatant view of her own trembling body in the mirror. Watching the slow progression of her need was even more torturous than the burn and ache he was nurturing inside her. She could take it all with her eyes closed tight. 

“Claire …” His voice resonated through her, vibrating as deep as her bones. 

She drew in a shaky breath, daring not to answer for fear her voice would fail her. 

“Open your eyes.” 

It was the most he could have asked of her; and that alone was why he was asking. 

“Please, Francis, don’t torture me.” 

The words rushed from her throat in a raspy groan, echoing desperate and foreign just as soon as they formed. 

His hands stilled, bringing her eyes open faster than his request. 

He peered over her shoulder, his gaze dark, frothing with primal desires that almost masked the gentility and devotion. 

“Is that what I do?” He murmured. 

One hand retreated from her breast, only to reach between them and unclasp the bra. The hooks snapped free. Her breath caught as the lace collapsed to the floor. 

“Torture you?” 

“That’s not what I- …” 

Her protest withered as one hand glided down her stomach to find the waistband of her panties. He wiggled them over the curves off her hips, and let gravity do the rest to send them sailing to her ankles. 

The consistent pulse between her legs spiked to an almost unbearable ache. She arched back against him, breaking her rigid posture for a physical explanation of the need coursing and building inside her. 

“You don’t look in pain to me.” He murmured. 

His hand drifted from her breast to her cheek, forcing her face back toward the mirror. She blinked rapidly as she took in the tawdry reflection in the mirror.

The flushed skin and frayed composure was a component of sex she avoided if she could. The functionality of their last encounter would have served her desires under better circumstances. There isn’t the room for dishonesty in rough and straightforward fucking as there is in the saccharine overtures of romanticized lovemaking. But these weren’t sweet nothings he was whispering in her ear. He held her captive somewhere in the middle, and she was a deer caught in the headlights - not sure which way to bolt. 

Her mouth parted, but she choked back a hoarse sound of need as his hand slipped between her legs. She throbbed and dipped; his fingers grazed her gently, igniting a fresh wave of already primed, coiled need through her body. 

“It does.” She groaned, pressing a slack expression of blinding pleasure into the mirror. “It hurts …” 

“You like it when it does.” 

The whispered reminder did little to curb the charging pace of building orgasm. Her eyes rolled back, her body arching into his grasp as he dragged his fingers in a firm circle around her swollen clitoris. The touch lost its softness as he shifted into an entirely different mode of attack - search and destroy. He’d found her, captured her, and she would fold to him with hardly nudge. 

The pleasure twisted harder, tighter through her, a coiled spring ready to lunge. His fingers circled and massaged, relentless, guiding her toward the apex of pleasure. Each circuit of his hand dragged her closer and closer, and with each one, she expected the orgasm to come crashing through her. It was so close, she could feel the tingle at the fringes of her mind, the truly painful clench of arousal, the breathless, clawing insanity of standing on the verge. She arched rigidly against him, not daring to breathe or even move as the next few moments held only the stroke of his fingers and the deafening drum of her heart beating her senseless with anticipation. 

It broke open inside her suddenly; one moment, she was straining in endless, torturous need and expectation, and the next she was arching to her toes against him, pleasure tracking through her like lightning severing the ground. He caught her around the waist as she arched and twisted, her knees dragging together around the agonizing stroke of his fingers against her sensitized clit. 

The orgasm wrung her of every spasm and twinge of pleasure, leaving her throbbing and humming, slick with release. She sank back against him, breathing in deep and hard for the minutes she’d deprived herself out of anticipation. 

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her glassy eyes and her reddened cheeks. Her first lucid thought was of Adam, how he’d never made her come so hard. 

She blinked the thought away as Francis led her away from the mirror. She was pliant in his grasp as he guided her to the bed, and laid her on the mattress among the scattered papers and books he’d been working on. 

Taking her by the knee, he nudged her legs open. She bit at her lower lip as his gaze shifted over her inner thigh to her wet, aching sex. She expected him to undress now, and take her; if twenty-seven years of marriage had taught her anything, it was to accept and enjoy the times when she achieved orgasm first, and to reward him in return. 

But he didn’t touch his clothing. 

He crawled onto the bed between her legs, and sank down to his stomach, bringing his head level with her hips. She gazed down at him, a question in her eyes that she could not verbalize.

He ignored the pressure of her gaze, and dipped his mouth to her. She gasped at the stroke of his tongue against her overly sensitized flesh. 

One hand dove automatically to his hair, dragging his face harder against her in undeniable need. A pleased grunt traveled from his throat, to his tongue, into her clitoris, and she whimpered at the low, pleasant vibration. 

“Francis …” His name was twisted with pleasure and objection. 

They had never given each other any more or less than what they needed; and sex had often been an amalgamation of many things far from pleasure - for shoring up broken hearts, for revealing strength, for reminding them of what’s important - but never superfluous.

Yet she could not object much further as the lavish sweep of his tongue and the pressure of his lips massaged another rippling orgasm toward the delicate, humming fringes of her body. She strained toward the warm, velvet caress of his tongue against her tight, throbbing clitoris, all the pleasured moans contained in her chest and silenced by utter, blinding arousal. She shuddered, hardly moving - but the chaos was raucous and fiery inside her, battling at her fracturing skin and bones to be free. She’d left screaming and crying behind the closed door of that last, fateful encounter, but he brought her to the brink again, in such a gentle, persuasive way that it was another face of madness staring her down in the dark, elongated tunnel of pleasure stretching through her mind. 

The shallow breaths, and a distinct, muted grunt that escaped past her clenched jaw signaled the end before her body even began to shake. His hands clutched hungrily at her hips, pulling her taut against his mouth as she stiffened, and began to writhe. The pleasure coursed hot and deliberate through her, doling out the orgasm in deep, hard spasms that brought her hips thrusting rigidly against his face. She grabbed the sheets in white-knuckled fists, fighting back the scream building in her throat. 

The seconds of pleasure stretched on, each spasm pummelling her with overpowering bliss, until it released her, discarding her weak and panting against the sheets. She pressed a hand to her face, clasping back the bursting, ragged breaths and whimpers. 

He crawled up from between her legs, nuzzling against her throat with warm, wet lips. He took her wrist, guiding her hand down to his crotch. 

Dizzy with the pleasure, she stroked him languidly. 

He grunted quietly against her ear, an urgent sound that asked for more. 

She fumbled with his pants and boxers, dragging both down just far enough to release his pulsing erection. She took him in her fist again, pulling him down toward her. He went without argument, until his cock was pressed against her wet, soft opening. She let go, allowing him to slide in. 

He sank down against her, uttering a low groan as their hips joined. His arms wound around her, one under her back, the other looping around her thigh. He pulled her tight against him, breathing a shuddering sigh against the curve of her jaw. 

She crossed her arms around his neck in return. 

Closing her eyes, she focused on the dull massage of his cock inside her. 

It was good to be back in their bed, in their house. This was a body she could inhabit, that she could trust. The strongest, best version of herself. There was no room for weakness here, and whatever fantasies she had entertained with Adam, she filed away in the back of her mind. They’d seen the light, but they needed to go back into the darkness. Even the freshest fruit can wither and die on the vine. 

 

~

 

They cleaned up in silence. 

When they were both dressed again, she curled up next to him as he turned back to his work. She watched him shuffle through papers and books, and type on his laptop for an hour before she cleared her throat. 

“Why did you do that?” 

“Do what?” 

The clatter of his fingertips over the laptop keyboard didn’t pause. 

She sat up, brushing her hair from her eyes. 

“You touched me, made me orgasm.” 

His typing paused. She felt the burn of his gaze before she even looked over to find him peering at her over the rim of his glasses. 

“You didn’t have to do it a second time.” She added. 

“Did you not want me to-”

“No, no, it was … good. I’m just asking. It’s not like you.” 

“I’ve spent the last week alone in this house thinking about what happened.” He said, “And while I was watching you undress, I realized you walked away from our last time unsatisfied.”

“Oh, so now you’re keeping a tally?” 

“It was a mistake worth fixing.” 

She nodded, and laid back down against his shoulder. 

“Do you not like that answer?” 

“No. It’s a good answer.” 

He went back to typing for several minutes before he paused, his fingers hovering thoughtfully over the keys. 

“Well, I wasn’t alone.” 

Claire lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “Oh?”

“Zoe was here.” 

“Did you invite her?”

“I did. But not for sex. We needed to talk, but that’s not what she wanted.” 

“What did she want?” 

“To take your place … for a moment. Usurp your position, your … authority perhaps.” 

“How so?” 

“She put on one of your dresses, and walked around this very room …” He said, waving a finger. 

“Which dress?” 

“The silver one from the gala.” 

“I’m sure she looked very beautiful.” 

“I told her you’d say so.” 

Claire sat up, snatching one of the loose papers from the bedspread. He cocked his head, watching curiously as she began to fold it. 

“She’s a child, Francis.” Claire murmured. “You can’t be so heavy-handed with a person like her … like you are with me.” 

“She knew what she was getting into.”

“She’s invested, isn’t she?” 

She swung him a sharp gaze that he avoided in favor or watching the crane take shape from the paper in her hands. 

“She doesn’t have the sense to make a clean break like you did with Adam. She doesn’t know when a good thing turns sour.” 

“No, it’s impossible to not taste the bitterness.” Claire said, “But it takes strength to turn and walk away cold instead of trying to salvage the broken pieces.” 

She held up the paper crane, smiling at her creation despite the nature of the conversation.

He took it from her, examining it’s tiny beak and wings. 

“Should I put this one in the trash with the rest?” He asked. 

“No. It’s for you, not me.” 

“For me?” He asked, a chuckle resonating from his chest. 

“The Japanese consider them a symbol of marriage and fidelity.” 

He raised a brow, and set the crane on the night stand. 

“It’s late.” He said, “Would you like me to take this into the study so you can rest?” 

“No, I’m fine.”

Sliding underneath the covers, she rolled to her side, her back facing him. She closed her eyes, knowing sleep wouldn’t come soon. 

“She may have worn my dress, but she’s not me.” She said, into the silence. 

“I know.”

“I know that you know. But does she?” 

“I never promised her anything but sex and media fodder.” 

“We tell each other everything; but whatever you do about her, I don’t care to know, Francis. I don’t  _ want  _ to know.” 

There was a beat before he murmured, “And Peter?” 

She drew in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “Goodnight, Francis.” 

 

~the end~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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